


Sleeping Sun

by calime



Series: Sleeping Sun 'verse [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2005-11-23
Updated: 2005-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calime/pseuds/calime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Methos-origins story, while in a way being a bit of a fusion with or drawing from Kalevala.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I started to write quite long ago, with an idea to retell some of Kalevala's events with Methos - Methos fits in everywhere, don't you think *g*?. At present, I think it's never going to be one long cohesive story as I mistakenly assumed while starting, but rather a series of short stories in the same 'verse. I cannot promise when, but there will definitely be more - it lives inside my head and pops up in my dreams. I make no promises regarding the delivery timeline, though.  
> It all started on the MSN.  
> Dresta: Did you know that [ the Kaali meteorite crater](http://www.muinas.ee/ecp/kaali/en/index.html) is about 5000 years old?  
> Calime: Are you _insinuating_ something?  
>  Dresta: Well, it did occur to me too...  
> Calime: I do not need any more plot bunnies!  
> Dresta: *insert evil laugh*  
> Dresta: Hmmm...The newspaper says that Estonia is the country with the highest density of meteorite craters per square kilometer in the whole world.  
> Calime: *laughs* Writer: Methos, would you like to go visit home again?  
> Methos: Are you kidding me? It is a very unhealthy place - cold, dark, damp, and the rocks keep falling from the sky.
> 
> It all went downhill from there...  
> So I give you ~~my latest madness~~ a work in progress:
> 
>  **Disclaimers:** Duncan, Methos and Joe don’t belong to me, but to some bighat production company Over There. I could not afford the upkeep anyway, as I suck at getting blood out of the laundry. The Kalevala does not belong to me either, _per se_ , but as a person of Fenno-Ugrian descent, I might claim that it is my cultural heritage. Or something. All said, I get no financial gain out of it (rather the opposite, ’cause the thing does tend to interfere with my various jobs); no sense in sueing me, because when the bank has extracted the mortgages, all that is left is just poor little me, and I make a lousy body slave ( I’m lazy, bratty and might take spanking as a reward).  
>  **Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a work in progress. It is subject to change and I cannot guarantee when it will be finished. So far I don’t think there is much in here that requires warnings, well, not very dire ones at least. Just, as it is a Methos-origins story, don’t expect a lot of Duncan or Joe in it. They’re just listening to the old guy. And don’t expect me to try to give the late Neolithic/early Bronze Age people any ’historically correct’ speech patterns. I wasn’t there, and it’s Methos retelling it. Some of the story may be historically/geographically correct, but fortunately not much.  
>  **Notes:** The Kalevala was compiled by Elias Lönnrot. The English translation quoted here is by John Martin Crawford.
> 
> Oh, and this is for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dresta11/profile)[**dresta11**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dresta11/) , because it is really her fault.
> 
> The title is borrowed without permission from the song by the Nightwish, from their album ‘Oceanborn’ . Lyrics of the song for those that are interested are here:
> 
> Sleeping Sun
> 
> The sun is sleeping quietly  
> Once upon a century  
> Wistful oceans calm and red  
> Ardent caresses laid to rest
> 
> For my dreams I hold my life  
> For wishes I behold my night  
> The truth at the end of time  
> Losing faith makes a crime
> 
> I wish for this night-time  
> to last for a lifetime  
> The darkness around me  
> Shores of a solar sea  
> Oh how I wish to go down with the sun  
> Sleeping  
> Weeping  
> With you
> 
> Sorrow has a human heart  
> From my god it will depart  
> I'd sail before a thousand moons  
> Never finding where to go
> 
> Two hundred twenty-two days of light  
> Will be desired by a night  
> A moment for the poet's play  
> Until there's nothing left to say
> 
> I wish for this night-time...
> 
> I wish for this night-time...  
> 

**1.  
Mieleni minun tekevi, aivoni ajattelevi  
lähteäni laulamahan, saa'ani sanelemahan,  
sukuvirttä suoltamahan, lajivirttä laulamahan.  
Sanat suussani sulavat, puhe'et putoelevat,  
kielelleni kerkiävät, hampahilleni hajoovat./…/  
(Mastered by desire impulsive,  
By a mighty inward urging,  
I am ready now for singing,  
Ready to begin the chanting  
Of our nation's ancient folk-song  
Handed down from by-gone ages.  
In my mouth the words are melting,  
From my lips the tones are gliding,  
From my tongue they wish to hasten;  
When my willing teeth are parted,  
When my ready mouth is opened,  
Songs of ancient wit and wisdom  
Hasten from me not unwilling./…/)  
Kalevala, Rune I (Proem)**

Those two were arguing again. Joe leaned back comfortably, preparing for the evening’s entertainment.

"But you can’t deny that fairy tales and legends have always played an influential role in human psyche…trying to explain the unexplainable, bringing out strong emotions, laying down ethical guidelines…" Duncan was saying somewhat heatedly.

"Try like glossing over and wish fulfilment,"quipped Methos.

"Well, mr. Cynic Been-There-Done-That, why don’t you enlighten us? I bet you were present at the birth of many a legend, if not actively involved in it. Tell us a story, the way you claim it happened. I’ve always been curious about the Stonehenge and it’s like – you should be old enough to have been there when the stone circles were built…" Duncan’s voice trailed away dreamily.

Methos gave an exasperated sigh. "I’ve tended to avoid messy things, that’s how I’ve stayed alive. And birth of a legend is just like any other birth – it’s bloody messy, risky to the participants, and the result bears very little resemblance to what it springs from. And it gets only worse over time. As to godhood, it is overrated as an experience."

"Well, gee, thanks for an outpouring of literary metaphors. Would you just for once stop preaching in generalities and give us a little piece of inside information?"

"Yes, old man, tell us a story," added Joe,"You’re the one that has been many things…care to share one of those overrated experiences?" He did not expect an answer, not really, so Methos’ soft words took him completely by surprise.

"There’s not much to tell about the stone circles. They’re just upgraded clocks. Another of countless examples of the human race misguidedly believing that if one builds a sufficiently sophisticated predictive device, one can control the universe. The standard human response to the world crashing around you – if you survive, build a better clock and try to believe that it is the clock that keeps the time intact."

"What?!"

Methos had been staring down at his drink, hunching over. At Joe’s exclamation he lifted his eyes, a procession of emotions flitting through his gaze, too fast to catch and classify …irritation, sadness, irony, surprise, amusement…

"All right. I’ll tell you a story…a seed of a myth, if you will, from the time before the stone circles."

Joe was not sure which one of them was more surprised at the sudden acquiescence, he, the Watcher, Mac, or most likely, he decided with a fast glance at Methos, the old bastard himself.

"Well, how should we begin? A long, long time ago…in the far land of Thule, where the Sun came down to sleep, a maiden found an abandoned child…"

Methos leaned back in his chair and though his face was still turned towards the Watcher, Joe was pretty sure that he was actually looking through him at something only the old one remembered.

 

 **2.  
Marjatta, korea kuopus, tuo on piika pikkarainen,  
/…/  
Marjatta, matala neiti, etsi suolta poikoansa.  
Poika suolta löyettihin, tuolta tuotihin kotia./…/  
(Mariatta, child of beauty,  
Magic maid of little stature,  
/…/  
Mariatta, child of beauty,  
Virgin-mother of the Northland,  
Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land,  
Finds him in the reeds and rushes;  
Takes the young child on her bosom  
To the dwelling of her father./…/)  
Kalevala, Rune L**

 

Marja was hungry and tired and wet. She was also more than slightly peeved – she had fulfilled her part of the bargain – at least as far as the wood spirits were concerned.

She had brought them a gift, an intricately woven small bracelet made of the mane of the last wild horse she had hunted and killed, declaring her intention and asking for the spirits’ permission to hunt another. She had dutifully returned the head of her previous quarry to the woods, so that the soul of the animal might come back once more in the body of the shaggy hoofed creature and the ranks of the forest-dwellers would not be diminished. She had equally dutifully presented the kill to her tribe and uncomplainingly shouldered her part of the tasks involving smoking and curing the meat.

She had not said a word of protest when the Mother and the Holy Man of the tribe, or the Akka and the Ukko, as they were respectfully called, decided that the skin of the animal would have to go to the newly-mated pair from her tribe, who had a squalling baby to look after.

Marja snorted at the memory. The hide of the kill was by tradition the property of the hunter, to be bestowed however he or she deemed appropriate. But no-one argued with the Akka, or the Ukko, for that matter. "You have no young to take care of, Marja," the Akka had said, and then, gazing pointedly at the knife on her belt, "perhaps if you would deem a man worthy to give your knife to, the Earth Mother would bless you with children, seeing that there would be someone else to hunt for them when you are carrying another one around in your belly, or at your breast. The Mother does not like to give her gifts to those that will not take proper care of them."

Marja snorted again. As far as she was concerned, the Earth Mother withholding little screeching hungry things from her was fine. She had seen first hand what trouble those little ones were, starting with their painful entrance to the land of the living. And as if birthing and feeding and raising the little ones was not a hardship enough, one was expected to pick a mate when one’s belly started to swell; to help and support the mother in raising the young. Hinder, more likely, thought Marja, and she had absolutely no intention of giving up her wondrous knife in token of accepting a paltry man as a mate in return.

The knife had come from far away places, over the salt water from the east, from where the people lived on the bank of the big river, and they in turn had gotten it from a traveller who had come to them through the deep forests of the south. It was a beautiful piece of work, unlike the ordinary flint knives of the tribe. She had given a dozen good pelts and two chunks of amber and her bone amulet carved in the shape of the lightning snake for it. Several others in the tribe had some ornaments of the strange stuff the knife was made of, but no one had a knife like hers. She could not imagine wanting to swap it for a mate, so, truth be told, she was deeply grateful to the Earth Mother for sparing her from a baby in her belly.

But she could definitely use a nice horseskin, and the dried meat would come in handy during the cold season, so she had carefully prepared for the next hunt to ensure her success.

And at the beginning of the hunt everything had seemed to be right. On the second day away from the village she had found a small group of wild horses grazing on lush grass at the edge of the swampy ground that would gradually lead to the great bog. She had singled out an elder foal that was much too curious for its own good and with painstaking patience had waited while the foal wandered further away towards the softer ground in search of more succulent rushes.

She had just placed herself between the foal and the herd grazing farther away and was stringing her bow, aiming for a perfect shot at the foal’s neck, when a sudden low rumble from the distance caused both the horses and the hunter to lift their heads and look around in alarm. Dark clouds that had been hanging low in the heavens for the better part of the day had suddenly become even darker and the late summer heat more oppressive. With a sudden sharp, deafening crack of thunder the heavens opened and white water poured down; the horses jumped up and away as one, the curious foal bounding on the heels of the herd, while Marja’s hastily loosed arrow swished harmlessly away into the undergrowth.

She could only grumble under her breath while seeking shelter from the rain. How could she be expected to remember to appease all the gods beforehand? It had been really rude on the behalf of the Thunder god to mess up her hunt. ’See if I’ll spare you anything next time, ’ she thought rebelliously.

A crackling noise drew her attention to the nearby clump of pines – the tallest of those had been struck by lightning and was burning, the angry flames already reaching over from the broken and blackened stump to lick hungrily the branches of the neighbouring trees. Despite the rain, the ground around the burning tree was smouldering. Marja spared a glance around – yes, it had been a dry summer, and even considering the amount of water pouring down, staying in the dried-out forest was not smart, in case this little burning would turn into a full-out forestfire. She turned and started to trot away, picking her way over the uneven ground.

That was when she found him. She stumbled and almost fell over something, and when she got her balance back, she discovered that the something was not a tree stump, but a skinny, rather grubby child, about four or five summers old, if the size was any indication, lying on his side with knees drawn up under his chin and arms covering his head, as if laid out for burial .

For a heartbeat Marja thought that the child was dead, but when she gingerly touched the arm thrown over the dark head, the child jumped up as if bitten and stood, trembling and looking at Marja with frightened eyes.

The boy was perhaps a bit slimmer and lighter-skinned than the children of her own tribe, but not much. The strange thing about him was the colour of those frightened eyes. Marja’s people had usually grey eyes to go together with hair that ranged from darker brown to lighter colour of woodland honey, whereas others, those with very dark hair, had soft deep-brown eyes. But this boy had the eyes that were the colour of the boggybottomed forest pools in the sunlight, peering out from under shaggy head of dark hair that was almost black from the rain.

Marja sighed. It seemed that the Thunder god was not through playing tricks with her.

"What is your name, boy?" she asked. The boy cocked his head with a puzzled expression on his face and remained mute.

Better and better. A wretched, mute, skinny child instead of a nice foal. The gods were really unkind sometimes. Sighing again, she took the boy by hand and dragged him along.

At least, he was big enough to know how to walk and had his own teeth, which meant no swaddlings or incessant crying or worrying about what to feed him with.

A second thought came to her, brightening her expression. Maybe the Akka would let her keep the next horsehide now that she had a little one by her fire as well. But in no way was she going to swap her knife for a mate, she could manage on her own perfectly well, even with a little thing to feed.

She frowned a bit, looking down at the child. He should have a use-name, at least, he was old enough for one. And as the child’s mother, it was her duty to give him the first name, wasn’t it?

She thought about it. The child had obviously something to do with the Thunder god, why else would he have ruined her hunt and given her the boy instead the foal? Maybe the boy was the child of Thunder or Lightning, just like the snakes were. She gave the boy another appraising glance. No, he did not look like a snake, more like a little grub. "I’ll call you Mato," she decided aloud. The boy looked up at the sound of her voice and gripped her hand more firmly.

All in all, it could have been worse, Marja decided. She could have came home from the hunt empty-handed.

 

__________________  
Note: Names are in Finnish - mostly contemporary Finnish, because despite being Estonian, I do not know any proto-fenno-ugrian *g*, and Finnish is much closer to the older forms of language spoken in the area than Estonian. 'Marja' means berry. It is probably an old name, but it is still in use nowadays. Akka and Ukko mean 'old woman' and 'old man' respectively; Ukko was also one of the names for a god with a bigger clout in the area of Finland and Estonia once upon a time. Some say that he was the Thunder god, and some said that the thunder gods (Pikker - Lightning and Kõu - Thunder) were his sons. And 'Mato' means worm, earthworm, grub, little snake. Don't look at me like that. It does. Honest.

 

 **3.  
/…/  
Vaka vanha Väinämöinen tuop' on tuossa tuomitsevi:  
"Kun lie poika suolta saatu, maalta marjasta si'ennyt,  
poika maahan pantakohon, marjamättähän sivulle,  
tahi suolle vietäköhön, puulla päähän lyötäköhön!"/…/  
(/…/Wainamoinen, old and faithful,  
Carefully the child examined,  
Gave this answer to his people:  
"Since the child is but an outcast,  
Born and cradled in a manger,  
Since the berry is his father;  
Let him lie upon the heather,  
Let him sleep among the rushes,  
Let him live upon the mountains;  
Take the young child to the marshes,  
Dash his head against the birch-tree."/…/)  
Kalevala, Rune L **

 

Marja had not been quite sure how the tribe would view her sudden ascendancy to motherhood, but she had thought that if the Thunder god had deemed her worthy of raising his child, all earthly objections should be moot by default.

Apparently Urpo, the strongest hunter (and the one to most strongly covet Marja’s bronze knife, even if it meant getting the troublesome woman in the bargain – a prospect he saw dwindling now in a most frustrating way) thought otherwise.

"Surely it is not a real child," he said.

"It will bring us bad luck," he objected.

"Marja has no mate and has said that she will not accept one. How will she care for a child?," he asked.

And then he brought forth the most powerful argument of all. "The foundling boy is mute! Have any of you heard him speak during all this time he has been here? He cannot therefore be human, but an evil spirit put on our way to do us harm. I say, lets bash his head in and kill him, before any misfortune befalls us!"

And he advanced threateningly towards the little boy, who though looking less grubby and a bit better fed than before, still had the same fear in his expression.

Marja gripped the hilt of her knife and tensed her body in preparation for an attack. At the best, she would be able to wound the bigger and stronger man, and then she would be cast out of the tribe, to wander homeless in the cold north. At the worst, Urpo would kill her before he got to the boy. Marja could not decide when and why her find had become so important to her, but she would rather be cursed to wander the black shores of Tuonela river forever than back down now.

She was so focused upon Urpo that she failed to notice the Ukko, who had quietly stepped up to her and so made a startled jump when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"What is going on here?" the Ukko asked in a quiet voice that still somehow managed to carry over the murmurings of the other tribespeople gathered around them.

"We have to get rid of the evil spirit!" snarled Urpo, "no-one knows who his mother is, and he cannot speak the tongue of people!"

"Is that so?" asked the Ukko. He squatted down in front of the boy and for a long moment just looked him in the eye.

Then he slowly raised his hand, made a fist and touched it to his breast. "Uk-ko," he said slowly and clearly enunciating both syllables. Then he took boy’s hand, folded the fingers into the palm, pushed the small fist against the boy’s breast where a little heart was pounding like a frightened rabbits’. "Ma-to," he said, and sat back on his haunches to gauge the boy’s reaction.

After a heartbeat, the boy slowly raised his fist and touched it to his breastbone. "Maa-too," he said in a sing-song voice, and reaching out to the old man, "Ukk-koo". Then he turned, looked up at Marja still clutching the knife-hilt so hard that her fingers were beginning to ache and said, pointing, "Maaarr-jja?", drawing the end of the name up liltingly as if asking a question.

Marja could not help it, she had to kneel down and hug the boy and push her face into the silky hair. It was as if from a distance that she heard the Ukko say in his most reasonable tone of voice to Urpo, "Hear, he can speak. So I think that he is not a spirit after all."

Adding as an afterthought, over his shoulder, "And if Marja needs help, I will hunt for them. I need someone to teach the lore of living things to, so that the tribe will have someone to take the place of the Ukko after I go to the Manala lands, and we have no other boys of suitable age. In fact, I think he will do well."

And, well, one did not argue with the Ukko.

 **/…/Ukko risti ripsahutti, kasti lapsen kapsahutti  
Karjalan kuninkahaksi, kaiken vallan vartijaksi. /…/  
(/…/Thereupon old Wirokannas,  
Of the wilderness the ruler,  
Touched the child with holy water,  
Crave the wonder-babe his blessing,  
Gave him rights of royal heirship,  
Free to live and grow a hero,  
To become a mighty ruler,  
King and Master of Karyala./…/)  
Kalevala, Rune L**

 

________________________  
Note: 'Urpo' is a name meaning mostly 'brave'. 'Tuonela' and 'Manala' are the names fenno-ugric people used to call the parts of their underworld, it was where the souls of the dead people went,a sunless place underground,separated from the land of the living by a dark Tuonela river which the souls of the dead or the shamans could cross. With the exception of being sunless, it was supposed to look pretty much the same as upstairs.


End file.
